It began, I suppose, about 18 months ago. My lady, who has always been sharp as a tack, runs the home with military precision, clean as a man called David, put a 3" varnish brush away - in her underwear drawer. The relationship, always lively, became gradually volatile, with waves of depression and unpleasant outbursts alternating with subdued hymn-singing. I took the precaution of mentioning the 'varnish brush' episode to my GP when it happened, and she confirmed this was 'important information'. Last October, her own GP picked up on lapses in speech and, reluctantly, Dinkie agreed to be visited by a nurse from the local Mental Health unit, which has gone on until, last month, as I was working late one evening (still part-time consultant in a specialised field), my wife walked into the room and said, "Who are you?" A 30-minute conversation followed, during which she was shocked to hear that we have been married for over 20 years, have lived in the same property for 15+ years.. It was only when I showed her our wedding photo that she was at all reassured. Now diagnosed, she remains in total denial and refuses to take her medication. What a fascinating conundrum!